


Time and Purpose

by SirKai



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gift, M/M, MTMTE, Secret Santa, Surgery, more than meets the eye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:12:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirKai/pseuds/SirKai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Overlord's murderous rampage throughout the Lost Light, veteran field medic Ratchet is left picking up many of the pieces in the aftermath. He focuses on making sure one capable warrior is back on his feet to protect the rest of the ship's crew as everything is in disaray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time and Purpose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homosindisguise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosindisguise/gifts).



> A Ratchet/Drift request fic for (www.homosindisguise.tumblr.com) through the secret santa event that the terrific Deers (www.deersu.tumblr.com) organized! Takes place between MTMTE issues #15 and #16

A series of clanging footsteps rang throughout the metal corridor. The doctor was jogging towards the medbay with a bundle of flattened scrap metal tucked tightly under his arm.

The infirmary door swooshed open, and any ringing footsteps were nearly deafened by a collection pained groans, hissing welders and whirring machinery. Ratchet stalked over to a nearby slab that was spilled over with energon stains. The patient occupying it was decorated with a myriad of thin, translucent hoses all over his body. 

First Aid was tapping at the monitor next to the slab and glanced over his shoulder at the other medic. “Oh, Ratchet, you’re back, what did you manage to…” His voice paused, staring at the grey, slightly misshapen slices of metal in Ratchet’s hands. “Is this a joke? We’re supposed to perform surgery and fix panelling with _junk?_ ”

“Until we have the time to fashion proper supports and plating, yes.” Ratchet shoved a piece of the metal into First Aid’s arms. The smaller medic grasped at it awkwardly. “Just cut what you need and be conservative. I’m leaving the rest near Ambulon’s station, but use as little as possible.”

First Aid shook his head slightly. “Got it,” he grumbled. 

Ratchet continued his march across the medbay once he offloaded most of the spare metal, reeling in towards an occupied slab near the center of the long room. The unconscious, motionless autobot on the slab was a welcome reprieve from the other injured crewmates, most of whom were an exhausting combination of disoriented, loud, and fidgety. The doctor lifted the black and white panelling from the patient’s chest, revealing a macabre sight of jostled tubes and ruined pistons. Everything else still hanging together looked like it was all one stumble away from being several barely-started jigsaw puzzles.

The operation was a tedious affair of soldering makeshift fasteners around exposed circuitry, pipes, and other dangling internal components. The ambiance of screams and groans fluctuated as Ratchet worked.

After sealing a minor crack in the spark casing, the medic tweaked the dial on his frame welder before the corner of his optic caught the flashing box on the slab monitor. He expelled a very audible groan. The doctor tuned the dial for another moment and reached over to tap at the screen, summoning the frame-lagged image of a very distressed ship captain.

“Ratchet, is Dri-”

“No, Rodimus,” the doctor interrupted. He turned his attention back to the patient on the slab. “Drift is _not awake yet_. He’s still in surgery. I told you that an hour ago. And two hours before that.”

“Isn’t it taking a while?”

Ratchet rolled his optics. “Yes, Rodimus. That’s because surgery takes a while.”

“Fine, just…” Rodimus’s voice trailed off with a sigh. “Let me know when he’s awake. I need to speak with him.”

The audio feedback from the transmission was punctuated with a low beep, and the call was over. Ratchet shook his head. He tightened his grip on the welding tool and resumed soldering the current fastener.

Then the patient started to stir.

“Was- argh, was that Rodimus?” Drift’s voice was barely intelligible over the hissing of the frame welder.

“You’re not supposed to be awake yet,” Ratchet said without pausing.

“Sorry,” the patient smarmed.

“Just don’t look down,” Ratchet advised.

Naturally, that was Drift’s immediate reaction. The color in his optics started to fade and his mouth hung open slightly. “Ratchet…” His voice was low and hoarse. “What did you-”

“You can lecture me about your spiritual dogma later.” Ratchet continued to weld down the reinforcements, speaking in between intervals of sizzling. “I’m just tying down your insides so everything doesn’t, well, fall apart the next time you stand up.”

“Or get pummeled within the inch of my spark casing?”

“That too.”

Drift gradually rotated his head to see the length of the medbay.“What about everyone else? Aren’t there-” He flinched and grunted a painful “argh” at the motion. “Aren’t there other autobots who need help more than me?” Drift asked after a pause.

The medic guided his welder along the last fastener, then lifted the tool out of Drift’s chest and shook the smoke from it. “Quitting with you now would be a waste considering I’m almost finished.”

“What about you?” Drift’s arm slowly lifted from the slab, fingers brushing against a dented and discolored piece of Ratchet’s shoulder. “You didn’t even take care of yourself.”

Ratchet gently grasped his patient’s hand and sat it back on the slab. “I’m the doctor here,” he reminded sternly. “Besides, you’re one of the most skilled combatants on the ship, and we were just attacked by _Overlord_ with no conclusion as to how he boarded in the first place.” Ratchet placed the frame welder into the top drawer of the wheeled medical cart. His hand paused on the handle. “And we might be losing Ultra Magnus.”

Drift looked to the side.

“Rodimus is-” The doctor sighed, and rubbed his forehead crest before he continued the soldering. “I know you look up to him, but I can’t wait for him to regain composure in the case that we also have Galvatron or the DJD as stowaways in this flying coffin.”

“Yeah…” Drift said.

“Or, Lineage of Primes help us, _both_.”

It took a moment, but Drift glanced up at the doctor and snickered at the remark. Ratchet followed with a short chuckle.

“Ah, it-” He shifted a little, propping his head up higher so he could see Ratchet more easily. “It hurts to laugh.”

“Just about everything is going to hurt. Even the preliminary scan showed well over half of your joints were virtually irreparable”

“And the scans after that?”

“You’re probably better off not knowing. But I have Brainstorm building some new joints and shock dampers for you.”

Drift’s optics narrowed into a slitted glare.

“Relax,” Ratchet assured. He waved his hand defensively. “I made him promise to not add anything _self-destructive_ or _time-manipulating._ ”

“You know I’d trust them more if you made them yourself.”

“Me too, but we’re all being pressed thin here.”

Ratchet took a moment to scan his tired optics around the medbay, noting the queue of injured crewmates who were all either groaning in pain or unconscious from shock. something about ambulon and first aid being busy. Rung was in the corner, sitting at the slab of a gold autobot missing both of his legs. The psychiatrist was wearing that modest smile and speaking slowly, with both sets of fingers gently wrapped around one of the patient’s limp hands. He was saying something warm and encouraging no doubt. Then he put an orange hand on the autobot’s forehead, and kept talking a few more moments until the autobot laid his head back and gently shut his optics.

Ratchet couldn’t remember who that was. He couldn’t even remember if he ever knew in the first place. His posture started to sag. “I still have so much to do,” he said quietly before looking back at Drift with pale and half-lidded optics. “And we’re just a blinking beacon for dangerous psychopaths; who knows who’ll want us dead next...”

Ratchet sighed, dragging his hand over his face. He sat down at the edge of the slab next to his friend and placed a red-painted hand on his shoulder. Then he smiled. “This ship needs you, Drift.”

Drift hoisted his aching arm up and rested his hand on top of Ratchet’s. He smiled back as much as his damaged joints and pistons would allow.


End file.
